Jamal
I close my eyes, trying to erase the expression I'd seen on her face when I'd stopped to look at her. She'd been pale with fear, her body rigid beneath me. It had been enough to put out the desire, my blood running cold.
Her warm touch on my arm snaps me out of the haze, bringing my attention back to her. I place a hand on hers, taking them away from my shirt and she stills.
"I know what you're doing," I say, staring at her. She averts her gaze, those brown orbs dull and lifeless. I can see that it's eating her up inside, the fact that she can't bring herself to be comfortable with me on an intimate level.
I send up a du'a to Allah for help.
"I'm not doing anything," she responds in that voice of hers that I've gotten used to but isn't quite hers. It comes out forced and edged, gone is the soft tone and easy smile.
"We both know that's not true." I lift her chin to meet my eyes, needing her to see the emotions there, the love and desperation. I cradle her face gently, the softness of her skin comforting my bleeding heart.
"We'll take it slow Nadia, until you're ready. As long as you're here with me, we'll work it out, together."
Her bottom lip gets tugged in between her teeth as her eyes become watery with unshed tears. I stretch out a hand to her, asking for her consent to hold her. She stares at it for a few seconds, my heart going into shreds as my own throat constricts with pain.
"Together Nadia," I repeat, my hand still out. She lets out a choked sob as she takes it, falling into my arms as she cries. "I'm here with you, my love."
"I'm s-sorry Jamal, I can't... I can't... "
Running my fingers down her hair, I hold on to her as her body quakes with the force of her sobs, doing whatever I can to be of comfort to her.
These past few months have been tough on her, constantly trying to heal herself out of the trauma without any help. I'd thought the nightmares would be a clearer indication that she needs to stop denying the truth, but even that wasn't strong enough of a fact to convince her.
I hope she realises now, how much she needs to let herself be aided and guided towards the journey of recovery. And not for the sake of any other person, but for hers alone.
* * *
The last of the clothes goes into the bag, folded and arranged neatly. After zipping it shut, I wheel it out of the walk-in closet and into the bedroom.
Nadia raises her head as I approach the bed, and a gentle breeze carries a whiff of her lavender scent towards me. She has her back propped up against the headboard, a bunch of pillows surrounding her as she busies herself with her iPad.
It still feels a little surreal every time I look at her and notice the changes in her body as the months go by. Getting to go through these new experiences together feels like a blessing as we both prepare ourselves for the next step of our lives; parenthood. And even more, knowing that we're going to be having more than one child makes it exciting in a way, and a bit scary.
A few days after the night she's cried in my arms, she finally had her first visit to the therapist. She'd been extremely nervous and scared about it, knowing that she was at last, going to face what she'd tried to avoid. Nevertheless, nothing had prepared us for the diagnosis she was to receive that day.
After a long conversation with the therapist, the doctor had told us frankly that Nadia's symptoms were very similar to those of PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder, especially with the recent nightmares she'd started to have. The doctor had explained how certain triggers could lead to flashbacks or cause an emotional breakdown.
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Our Stormy Ride
Spirituelles#1 Ar-Rahma Series Their names were written down together long before the universe had been created. Life throws them at each other. They collide. An arranged marriage. Their Stormy Ride. For Nadia Ali, life was just as ordinary as a plain white cl...
